02
by WolfsLegend
Summary: It was supposed to be a good day. There was going to be laughter and fun, smiles and memories. They were going to be a family that day. For once, their father was taking part in their lives. For once, the aging scientist had stepped foot out of his lab to act as the father that they had lost so long ago. However, that day did not end in smiles and memories, laughter and fun.


**I've never written a Vocaloid fanfiction before and probably never will again... but I had this idea... it probably sucks but oh well. R &R would be cool (+ or - because how else will I be able to progress in writing :3 ).**

 **DISCLAIMER: No, I-WolfsLegend- do not own Vocaloid and etc. etc. etc.**

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 ** _" There is no such thing as accident; it is fate misnamed. "_ **

_– Napoleon Bonaparte_

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 **02 – 02 – 2002**

It was supposed to be a good day. There was going to be laughter and fun, smiles and memories. They were going to be a family that day. For once, their father was taking part in their lives. For once, the aging scientist had stepped foot out of his lab to act as the father that they had lost so long ago. However, that day did not end in smiles and memories, laughter and fun.

He sat there, ignoring the blood that trickled down from his temple. He ignored the flashing lights that ate at his vision, the sirens that burned his eardrums, and everything else that would signify life. To him, he was still reliving the moment. His hands still outstretched, clutching an imaginary steering wheel that he had treated as his lifeline. Over and over, the scene replayed. The truck had barreled through, unaware of the small, beaten Metro.

 _It happened so fast… he… he didn't have time._

The Metro spun out, asphalt burning from the screech of tires. Glass spider webbed, cracked, _shattered_. The exterior groaned and creaked, metal ripping over metal… it sounded like breaking bones. Its body was forced backward, crushing in on itself, and all the while it tumbled down into the opposite lane. One spin, then another, and another. It stopped at its fifth tumble, stopping upside down…

 _Then the second vehicle._

The second culprit, a trucker, hit head on.

Over and over. Screeching, shattering, breaking, cracking, _dying_.

"Sir, can you hear me? Sir? Sir!" The man was shaken gentle at the shoulders, his burning vision overflowing with unfamiliar faces. They were speaking to him, he assumed, but not matter what they said he could not hear them. No, all he heard was the shattering of glass and the breaking of metal. All he heard was the screams that had sounded off behind him when the first vehicle struck.

"O'Leary, we need to rush those kids to the hospital." The faces that flooded his vision pulled back then, flashing lights of reds, whites, and blues taking over what little recognition remained in that man's head.

 _Did his children make it?_

That one thought, so small and so weak compared to the adrenaline driven memory was barely heard. Yet, when he gave it attention his eyes widened. Did his children make it? For once, in the thirty minutes that it had taken for him to consciously realize that he was not in the front seat of his trusty, old Metro, did he move. He sky rocketed up, his bodily functions hazed and slow, and turned to what had settled behind him.

Police cars surrounded the scene, two ambulances having joined in just moments before, and emergency officials and civilians scurried amidst the three automobiles but he barely noticed the panicked frenzy that had taken refuge in the intersection. No, all he could focus on was the Metro. All he could focus on was that one little blond head that was barely visible over the shattered window.

He ran.

His legs burned, the adrenaline vanishing just like that as he ran. His heart hammered in his chest, in his throat, in his head.

Only when he reached the back side of the crushed up Metro was he pulled away, officials speaking words unheard. He would have fought them, would have… but he had seen enough.

 _The children did not make it._

He saw the blond heads, brother and sister leaning against the seats. Their heads were tilted unnaturally, blood dripping from their head, their nose, and their mouth. The girl's eyes were wide open, staring into nothing… and the boy's… his were closed as if he was indeed asleep, but the man knew better.

 _There's no one left. All alone… he's all alone._

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 **" _Well, we know that this won't end well_**  
 ** _And there's no way for us to tell_**  
 ** _How much longer we have 'til_**  
 ** _Our heaven turns into hell_ "**

\- Heartbeat by Circus-P

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 **12 – 02 – 2002**

The very room reeked of sanitizer and bleach, but it was a smell that he had been accustomed too. However, on each passing day he would never get used to the sight of the two capsules that took place in the center of the room. Capsules—tanks—that held what he hoped to be living, breathing hearts.

All around the two tanks were wires upon wires, cords upon cords, tubes upon tubes. One for oxygen, one for electricity, one of constant medicine, one for sustenance, one for filtered water, and one for the senses—each one snaked around the bottom, then climbed up to the top like lifeless vines. At the top did they enter, spiraling downwards into lime green ooze, and taking homage on bare flesh.

The inhabitants floated, lifeless, despite the soft rise and fall of the oxygen machine that rattled between the capsules. Nakedness and all… except for the missing _parts_. The girl was missing everything and anything below her torso, the left eye was nothing but a black hole, and the side of her face was sunken in… decayed. The boy was messing the left half below his torso, the right arm, and the right side of his head rested a decaying hole. Realistically there would have been guts, muscles, nerves, tendons, and bones falling forth from what were amiss, but instead more wires, more cords, and metal floated from the gaping holes.

 _He didn't want to be left all alone. He couldn't bear the thought…_

Their skin was snowy and perhaps even glistening like metal. Their bodies were rigid, robotic… doll-like. The only lively thing that remained was their breath and their present lime green eyes. The only movement was not the chest but their golden hair, wispy tendrils that moved ever so gently in the filtering water.

Alive nor dead. Robotic. Soulless.

 _He'd already lost his wife. He couldn't bear the thought…_

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 **I found some pictures and found some twisted inspiration. I also wanted to try at writing a car wreck and I hope that I did it justice. We will see I guess _._**


End file.
